


A Waltz in Minutes

by shakespearerunaway



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, somewhere in time au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11471787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearerunaway/pseuds/shakespearerunaway
Summary: "Come back to me."In which Bellamy falls in love with a photograph. Or rather with the woman in it-Clarke Griffin. But it turns out that she has already passed. 8 years late, Bellamy has come to the knowledge that they had unknowingly met on the night of her death. Determined to see her in person, Bellamy is keen to defy all odds. For even death cannot stop him from meeting Clarke Griffin.





	A Waltz in Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the movie "Somewhere In Time" that starred Jane Seymour and Christopher Reeve. I adore that movie cause I'm a romantic sap and it just gives me the chills whenever I watch it.  
> I highly recommend watching it (before/after reading this fic. Your choice.) It's a pretty old movie. It was made in the 80s and set in 1912 or something. I don't know what to do with that information but there you go. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.

Come back to me.

A memory resurfaces as he stares at the photograph. A memory that quickly dissolves into fragments of thoughts as he becomes more enthralled by the photo. Or perhaps, by the woman in it. 

The colors of the photo were translated in the shades of sepia. But he can tell that she had blonde hair that neatly fell on her shoulders. Curls styled to perfection. A mole rests on top of the corner of her upper lip. 

She’s smiling. In a genuine way, anyone could achieve if in a state of true happiness. Wonder what made her smile like that?

His eyes pan down to the bottom of the framed photo, hoping to find a name. Only to end in disappointment. 

“Jaha!” He called out. Jogging up to the front desk where stood a tall, dark man. Wrinkles and white hair. Despite his age, he presented himself in a sturdy yet kind stature. His smile brightened as he turned his head. 

“Mr. Blake! Everything all set?” His voice low and soothing. Paralleling his nature and mannerisms.

“Yes. Thank you but I would like to ask…” He pauses and smiles to himself, realizing how crazy he must sound like. But Jaha’s warm smile only encouraged him. “Who is the woman in the photograph in the hotel’s museum.”

“Woman?” A moment of confusion before— “Oh yes! You mean, Miss Clarke Griffin.” 

“Clarke Griffin.” He repeats to himself. It shocks him how easily the name fell from his lips. Like his tongue had already known it, said it a million times. Come back to me.

“She stayed here years ago. Back when I was a boy.”

Jaha smiles at him. Memories rarely revisited, now emerging from the untouched corners of his mind. “Starred in a play that showed in the hotel’s old theatre.” 

So, she’s an actress. He points at the building across the field. Even from inside the main building, with meadows of grass separating them from the theatre, he can tell it has surpassed its expiration date. “What play did she star in?”

“I hardly remember, sir. I was barely a child and more like a toddler. My father wouldn’t let me near that place. Only wanted me to stay here. Wouldn’t even let me play with my toy ball. The bouncing drove him crazy.”

“It’s going to be taken down soon. Turn into something else. A restaurant, maybe” The sound of reminiscent longing evident in his voice. Jaha turns to watch him stare at the theatre. “Would you like to see it?”

The building was worn, old but still beautiful. It was simple. The stage didn’t have grand statues on each end of it. Just thick, red curtains. And the seats were just simply designed with red, velvet cloth. The seats stretched to two floors. 

He stared at the invisible audience from center stage. From there he could hear the faint applause of the past. “They don’t stage productions here anymore. Young people prefer the television. Surely, you’d understand that.”

That last statement hardly had any malice on it. There didn’t seem to be any intent. But there was still a hint of sting that hit him. “I’m a playwright, Jaha.”

“Oh.” His words hardly had any malice in them too. He even followed it with a small, assuring smile. However, it was clear that Jaha had realized his mistake. “Forgive my assumptions.” 

“Would you like to see the backstage?”

It was dark, dingy. Boxes filled with unused props were everywhere. Dusty costumes hung on old racks. He walked towards the vanity mirrors. They were now blurred and dirty. His reflection looked like an unfocused picture.

HIs thick, dark fingers caressed the aged glass. A warm feeling fluttered in the pit of his stomach. Curiously, it all felt—familiar. 

“Mr. Blake.” Jaha called, removing him from whatever trance he was in. He walked over to where Jaha stood. In front of a wooden armoire. Still solid and sturdy in spite of the long years. At the bottom of the dresser were old magazines, neatly placed in the upper right corner. Jaha took them with gentle ease. He walked over to the nearest table and placed the magazines on top. “You can look though them if you like.”

He smiled up at him, taking a seat. Jaha smiled back, polite and genuine.

“I’ll be attending to my other duties but if you need me, you know where to find me.” He points to his house at the other end of the field. 

“Thank you, Jaha. I really appreciate it.”

The gratitude wasn’t simmered any longer. He then flipped through the first magazine as Jaha exited the building.

The air grew thick. An atmosphere more noticeable as the dust rested in the room. He felt the tension in it shift but he shrugged it off as something else. Going back to the preserved pages, Bellamy was determined to know more about Clarke Griffin. 

-

“What the hell are you doing in the Grand Hotel?”

Her voice still hits him with the same amount of anger and annoyance over the phone as it does in person.

He didn’t inform her of his little trip but that’s part of the fun in escaping for a while. And besides, he’s done this so many times, Octavia should be used to it already.

“Just taking a little break, little sis. Don’t lose your head.” Bellamy rolls his eyes, shifting his body to rest on the payphone. Aware of the stages of anger Octavia experiences when this happens, he already knew how to handle this amount of rage.

“Bell, it is hard enough dealing with this as your sister but dealing with it as your manager? Completely different story but just as annoying.”

He can hear the regression of anger in her voice. She sighed. She sighed in a way where Bellamy knew that she was starting to understand why he does these things. 

“Please tell me you’re doing this for your writing.” He can hear the defeat in her voice. But in a way, there was something supportive in it too. The soft spot Bellamy leaves in his heart for Octavia grew warm with relief. Glad he still knows his sister despite everything they’ve been through.

“Yes Octavia. It’s a writer’s block.” He looks around the patio of the hotel. His eyes exploring the horizons. The sunlight gleamed on small waves of the lake beside the field.  
Yes, he really needed this. “I just needed to get out of the city.”

“How much time do you need?” She didn’t sound angry this time. She isn’t his manager at this point. She’s his little sister. 

“I won’t be long, I promise.” HIs voice comforting, breaking, remembering the time he left her with their mother for 5 months when he was 20. A mistake that will never happen again. 

“Alright. I’ll take care of your stuff here. Just—“ she sighs, surely visiting the same memory he was. “—just come back, big brother.”

“I will.” He reassures. Voice determined and comforting. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

-

Come back to me.

It kept repeating in his head. Her face. Her expression. It was so vivid in his mind even after 8 years. 

The way her eyes still shone bright with wonder. The way she looked at him. Her thin hair replaced with silver. Neatly braided, falling down her shoulder. She was wearing a black lace dress that hugged her fragile body. 

She approached him that night. December 1972. The night when his first successful play was debuted. In the middle of a crowded room where people surrounded and congratulated him, she approached. Her head held high and her hands clenched into a soft fist. 

The people grew quiet as she walked closer. She took his hand in her own. Holding them with such tender warmth. 

“Come back to me.” She said, eyes pleading yet satisfied, somehow. She closed her eyes tight, like she was stopping herself from crying. Then, she left. Everybody’s head turned to watch her leave. When she disappeared, he realized she had left something in his hand—a pocket watch.

The gold pocket watch he started to use every day since. He glances at it from the driver’s seat. The memory becomes more vivid the more he looks at it. 8 years ago, she was there. She knew him. But, how can she?

He tries to stop his mind from wandering. Stops himself from jumping into conclusions. He tells himself to focus on what he can know now. She wasn’t alone that night.

Along with her was another woman—younger. She stood with her. She wore a pale dress and wore her hair in a simple ponytail. He remembers her being nervous and confused that December night. He found her. In the midst of praises of Ms. Griffin’s success was her name—Raven Reyes. She was her caretaker and she was the last person to see her alive. 

After an hour of rummaging through the yellow pages, he found that she lived in a town near the Grand Hotel. 

After a 30-minute drive, he found her house, sitting at the corner of a suburban street. It had a white picket fence with the gate open and a fully-grown lemon tree at the corner of the front lawn.

Bellamy stood at the entrance of her home., nervously shaking for some reason. The questions he planned on asking her were already jumbled in his head. Mixing his thoughts around, making him nauseous. Suddenly, his thoughts were put on a stop when the front door opened. 

“Can I help you?”

-

“I was 12 when I first met her. My adoptive father had just passed and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. She found me working in the theatre she was performing in. I was like the mechanic of the place. I fixed the lights, the sound machines, anything that involved a tool box.”

“She was the only one who’d talk to me. Eventually, she found out about my situation and decided to adopt me not without my permission though. She sent me to school and everything.” She inhales deeply before— “In return, I took care of her until…”

She stares at her coffee. The air grew thicker. Bellamy understands. He knows just how it feels to lose someone. He puts his hand over her knee and offers a comforting smile. “She was my best friend.”

Raven Reyes was 58 years old. Bronze skin and brown eyes. She’s kept her body fit for her age. Bellamy couldn’t believe her when she told him how old she was.

Her house was filled with photographs. Each wall or corner had at least one. Pictures of her, Clarke, and other friends. She let him wander. He asked questions as he looked at the photos. She answered them generously. He found out that she graduated in mechanic engineering. Quite rare at this point in time. And yet, she managed to become exactly what she wanted to be. 

She graduated in 1943 at age 21 and worked for 19 years. She visited Clarke religiously, spending every Christmas and Thanksgiving with her as much as she can. She got married at 30 with the man’s she loved since childhood—Finn Collins. She even got pregnant but had resulted in a miscarriage. She and Finn both weren’t the same after that. They were getting better until that night of August 1961, Finn was shot in the middle of a brawl fight he tried to mediate. Raven spent one year in complete lock up. Shutting out everyone in her life.

“He was always trying to make peace. Who would’ve thought that was what got him killed.”

Raven looked at the tattered picture of her late husband. It was his graduation picture. He was 20 at the time. His face was so bright with wonder and passion. It was hard to imagine he was dead.

1962, she came back to Clarke and lived with her since. The house she resides in was once hers. Given to her on a signed will.

“She died that night, you know.” She tells him knowingly. Bellamy turns to her and she’s staring at her hands as they fiddle with the cloth of her dress. Bellamy knows what night she’s referring to but he still asks, “What night?”

She looks up at him. “That night she visited you.”

His jaw clenched. His heart rate picked up pace. Even more confusion flooded his mind. How the hell could she have known me? A deluded idea enters his mind. Even an imaginative writer cannot possibly believe this was possible. Can it?

_

“Mr. Blake, I believe you are mistaken.”

Professor Becca Pramheda was young. Older than him but still young. Younger than what Bellamy had expected, that’s for sure. Already having finished her masters and earned her PhD at the age of 36. 

Bellamy found that she teaches in his old college on Fridays and so he went to see her. He asked about her book on time travel. She had only one book about the topic for her peers dismissed her theory and belittled her research. She lost plenty of respect from her colleagues. Which is why she never spoke of it again. Until today.

“Please ma’am.” He follows her as she tries to walk away. Pleading for an explanation. Her quick turns and long stride didn’t hinder Bellamy from catching up. “I read your book. Tried to understand it. I just need to know if it’s possible.”

She tries to lock him out of the classroom, a childish decision for her to make, but still to no prevail. Bellamy managed to keep the door from closing with his foot. It’s going to leave some damn bruise but that wasn’t a problem.

“Please ma’am.” He looked at her, his brown eyes begging.

“Why does it matter to you?” She asks him, genuinely confused. He didn’t answer. He only stood in silence and looked down on the floor, helpless. She doesn’t understand but she surrenders for she recognizes his vulnerability.

“Very well.” She opens the door, letting him into the classroom. He enters, looking around as she heads for her desk. Clearing up the papers and documents, she asks nonchalantly. “What do you want to know, Mr. Blake.”

He looks at her, expecting her to look back. She didn’t. He didn’t press her to. Instead he sat on the table behind him. “Well, I understand how it works, self-suggestion and hypnotization. It’s difficult but I guess my only question is… does actually it work?”

Becca looks exasperated. Seemed like, no, it was obvious that she did not want to talk about this. It came with memories of ridicule and humiliation. But still she answered. 

“When I was a student, I managed to time travel, briefly, to the year 1571. Don’t ask about the year. It wasn’t a dream. Many believed it was but I know it wasn’t. A dream is often blurred and forgetful. It also doesn’t make sense since it is just a mixture of knowledge and memories. Which is why you tend to dream about the last person you spoke with that day because it’s the last memory of a person your brain has before you sleep.”

“My experience was… vivid. Interactive. I spoke with people. Touched and felt them and their emotions. I saw them and they saw me. It was real. I know it.” That last line didn’t feel like it was for him. It felt like it was for her. Like she was the one who needed convincing. There was a conviction in her voice that sounded like she was sure but at the same time, not. “It didn’t last for long though.”

“You see, to me, it felt like I was there for a day. But here in my time, it was not more than just a few hours. However, when I came back, I was exhausted. Both your brain and body will experience a kind of fatigue that feels like you’ve been working nonstop for weeks. I had to be brought to hospital after that.”

“How did you convince your brain to do it?” Bellamy interjects, mesmerized by the idea. Could this be possible? He thinks to himself, slowly becoming more convinced. 

“The trick is to fool your mind that you’re actually in that moment in time. Take away anything that reminds you that you are in 1980. Even the clothes you’re wearing. A simple piece of paper with a date can easily pull you back. Get rid of that and before you know it… you’re there.”

Bellamy got back to the Grand Hotel that day with a new sense of determination. With his newfound knowledge, his intentions didn’t seem so foolish than it did before. He passed by the hotel museum that day before going to his room. Staring back at her photograph. He feels a jolt in his heart before turning away to go back to his room. 

He couldn’t wait until tomorrow. For tomorrow, he’s going to buy a new suit and redecorate his room. He closed his eyes, imagining how it will be like to meet her. Clarke Griffin. He repeats her name until he falls asleep, hoping he could see her in his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> I added a few plot points that weren't in the movie and that's because of the characters involved. It's really fun adding new things to this plot because it makes it more (idk the right word for this but) tailored for the pairing. Bellamy and Clarke aren't like Richard and Elise (the couple in the movie) so, adding things that makes more sense for Bellarke is a really fun (yet challenging) thing to do.
> 
> And yes, I added the Raven/Finn a thing but as much as I hated what Finn did, I really loved their relationship and wished it ended better than it did. I have a soft spot for Finn (sue me). But this couple will only be in this fic minimally.
> 
> Anywho! I'll try to update as fast as I can but don't expect too soon. I really hope you enjoyed and I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this.
> 
> I'll be crying in my tumblr @crimson-prudence.tumblr.com


End file.
